


(Antiquarian and) Unusual Bookshop Encounters

by actualmichelle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualmichelle/pseuds/actualmichelle
Summary: Celestial being or not, customer service is the truest trial of all.





	(Antiquarian and) Unusual Bookshop Encounters

When Aziraphale first mentioned he was considering opening a bookshop Crowley stared at him for a long moment.

"Angel," he drawled, "You realize having a bookshop will involve _actually selling_ your books?"

Visibly deflating Aziraphale waved a hand idly, muttering to himself irately. Crowley had figured the conversation was closed. 

It was after all a valid concern. At this point there had been millennia to amass a large collection of written works—plays, prophecies, religious texts, fiction, poetry, anything that could be named and Aziraphale had it or had an uncanny ability to find. From the moment the written word had been devised and records began the angel had been overjoyed. He never failed to be impressed at the variety of languages that ensued, the artistry of the works, and the ingenuity of the human race he had been working so to protect.

Despite all this very rarely had Aziraphale deigned to let another soul near his precious collection. Small as it began and steadily as it grew, to his own private shame his protectiveness only grew proportionately. What had begun as a sliver of covetousness had by the 18th century evolved to a flustered rage if one were to threat harm to a single, solitary book [ _1_ ]. It was a source of secret shame for Aziraphale—not that he would ever admit that to the endlessly amused Crowley. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

Not to mention the simple fact was Heaven did not entirely approve of the hobby now that the small collection had grown to rival any other private libraries in existence. It had become necessary to create a ruse. What Aziraphale needed was a place to store his books, a place that would help him blend in with humanity, a place that Gabriel could not question.

In short, a bookstore.

Finding a location had been easy enough, as had creating an array of shelves and tables to store his beloved volumes. Organization had taken the better part of a month, most of it spent agonizing over how to classify this or that. In the end Aziraphale had opted to use a haphazard method, one that only he could decode. All the better to deter actual customers, after all.

But then the true trial began—the customers. In they came, wreaking havoc and trying to secret away his most precious of belongs. Eventually Aziraphale pinpointed the best ways to make the blasted humans leave in the least rude way possible, but over the decades his style became progressively more offensive. The price of customer service, he supposed. 

The last straw was a fellow who went straight for a first edition Oscar Wilde that Aziraphale had left out after reading it the night before. There he’d been straightening up a display he’d put together of some novels that could perhaps be worth selling, until a tap on his shoulder distracted Aziraphale from his work and he’d spun around to face…a customer. 

“Are you the owner?” the man asked. Aziraphale already did not like his tone, it was much too exploratory for his taste. 

“Why yes, that’s me! Did you need something?” Azirphale asked, trying to tread the line between polite but not too friendly.

“Yes—I’d like to buy this book,” he continued holding the book up at face level, fingers pinching its spine as it hung between them.

Aziraphale winced. 

“How much is it?” 

“Erm…I don’t--,” Aziraphale began, but was cut off by his horror at what happened next. The dreadful human with the hint of impatience inherent of all mortal species gave the book a little shake.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, feeling the blood pressure he did not actually have skyrocket. Beyond words he sputtered, reaching up to snatch the book away.

The man jumped back, mild alarm becoming apparent on his face, “Excuse me, what are you doing?” 

Carefully regaining control Aziraphale took a deep breath (that he also, technically, did not need) and unclenched his fists. Forcing a smile back on his face and replying, “I apologize. It’s just, could you please just perhaps not hold that book so—it’s quite valuable to me and I can’t bear to see it mishandled.” 

“Valuable, eh?” a speculative glance was thrown, and the tortuous grip not lessened in the slightest. 

It was only the timely appearance of Crowley that prevented bloodshed and perhaps quite a bit of paperwork from being filled out that day [ _2_ ]. As it was, the encounter ended with the volume safely in the back room, the man fleeing to the street after a small explosion compelled him to LEAVE AT ONCE.

“Really, Azirphale, I thought I was supposed to be sowing discontent and scaring the humans—not you,” Crowley had drawled, pouring them each a large glass of wine as Aziraphale firmly locked the door and spun the sign to ‘Closed’.

“He did that himself! Mishandling an Oscar Wilde—what kind of barbarian would do such a thing.”

Aziraphale downed his glass of wine, refilling it under the considering gaze of his friend.

“How much was it worth then? Were you looking to sell that one off on a special occasion, make a pretty penny off it to let you coast through to the new millennium?” Crowley asked teasingly, eyes glinting with their customary burnished gold glow.

Choking abruptly the angel scowled, “Most certainly not. That one is simply not for sale.”

They fell into a companionable silence, Aziraphale seating himself at the desk and sheepishly meeting the demon’s gaze. His eyes darting towards the ground Aziraphale continued, “Anyway, it’s only worth a few thousand pounds. Not worth the fuss I’d say.”

Crowley’s eyebrows flew up, “The fuss? A book, not worth the fuss? I’ll believe that when I see it, angel. Especially when all prior evidence is to the contrary.” 

Meeting Crowley’s marginally gentled (perhaps even affectionate) eyes Aziraphale smiled back shyly. There hadn’t been any tension in the room previously, but immediately the feeling of the place began to float from needling to friendly. And with that the two switched their topic of conversation to catching up on the matters of miracles and temptations, rather than the dismal literary habits of the average human specimen.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Not even, necessarily, from Aziraphale’s own collection. On one memorable occasion a brawl had broken out due to escalating tensions over a particularly sought after edition of Shakespeare. 
> 
> [2] And really wasn’t that always the case? Crowley seemed to always appear whenever Aziraphale most needed help. A wonderfully flattering coincidence, to be sure.


End file.
